


Things To Do In Atlanta When You're Undead

by empty_marrow



Category: Profiler
Genre: Alternate Universe - Zombies, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-07-15
Updated: 2012-07-15
Packaged: 2017-11-10 00:37:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/460299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/empty_marrow/pseuds/empty_marrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A student and a serial killer walk into a Zombie Apocalypse.  No, really.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Originally started as a Christmas gift for serialbathera at the profiler_fans LiveJournal comm, and finally doing the undead shambling thing towards completion. Merry Christmas x many many months, Amanda!

By the time he’d blown the torso off the fifth malodorous, decomposing creature, Jack was ready to go the fuck back to Otis.

He was also pondering that Creature #4 bore a striking resemblance to the Atlanta computer geek that had been trying and failing to track his online activities, but stopping for a closer look at the now-severed head would seriously cut into his firing time. The 9 mm Glock was heating up in his hands from repeated use, he was down to his last clip of ten bullets, and he hadn’t even made it out of the VCTF lobby.

Seriously, Bundy and Dahmer never had to put up with any of this shit.

He sidestepped the grasping hand of… _something_ wearing a security guard’s uniform, unloading two head-shots when the creature tottered up on what was left of its knees to lurch after him. It disappeared in a blast of dust, shredded polyester, and something that smelled too horrible to even think about.

And now there were eight bullets between him and really, really screwed.

Alone for the moment, Jack shook his head, a failed attempt to clear the ringing in his ears from one too many close-range gunshots. He caught his reflection in the half-shattered brass VCTF logo at the front of the security desk and grimaced. _Sorry, Sherriff Boast, looks like you’re going to be the next casualty here._

He dropped the Glock onto the desk, loosening his tie and pulling at the buttons of his Otis Sherriff’s Department standard-issue shirt until he was able to unsnap the hidden padding that made up Ed Boast’s fake paunch – no sense in over-accessorizing this afternoon, not when he needed to be as fit and flexible as possible to get the hell out of the lobby and up to Samantha.

_Samantha._ The horrifying thought hit him like a slap in the face. Shit, his Samantha could be somewhere upstairs with those _things_. 

It was impossible to tell if the elevators were working, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to risk getting stuck. The stairwells were going to be dangerous – lots of nooks and crannies for the creatures to hide in – but still a better bet. They were alarmed and locked, but if memory served him the control panel at the front desk had an override function for all access doors in case of fires or other emergencies – and this was definitely one fucking “other” of an emergency. Now to hope he hadn’t blown the thing to smithereens in the firefight.

Head bent over the control panel, thoughts split between how to coax the computer into service and how to get to Samantha, Jack never heard a thing until he was airborne.

Apparently the fuckers were pretty strong when they were pissed off.

He bounced off the back wall and hit the floor with an audible thud, somehow maintaining the presence of mind to protect his head from cracking against the marble. He could hear the creature’s footsteps as it came toward him, a strange kind of shuffling as it slipped on the slick surface. He scrambled woozily to his knees, blinking hard to clear his vision.

Well, shit, so much for those eight bullets – the Glock still sat serenely on the edge of the security desk, and there was no way he’d get to it before the creature got to him. Cursing, Jack looked around for something, _anything_ he could use as a weapon. He’d landed beside the remains of the security guard, and he swallowed down his disgust long enough to grope through the torn clothing and shattered bones. Empty gun holster, nightstick broken in three places, canister of Mace clipped to the belt – _bingo_. He was able to palm the Mace before he was lifted up off the ground like a ragdoll.

The creature was tall, at least six feet, and the shoulders were broad and covered in what had probably been expensive fabric. It made a continuous, wet growling sound, pretty impressive for something lacking a tongue and most of its teeth. The flesh was mottled and patchy on the left side of its face, but the right side was still intact enough for Jack to recognize, right down to the blue eye and gelled hair. He almost dropped the Mace in shock.

“Son of a _bitch _– Grant, is that _you?___ " 

It – well, _he_ – seemed to hesitate for a second at the name, and Jack took advantage of the opportunity to Mace him full in the face. Grant blinked, sneezed once, then threw Jack to the ground with an enraged roar.

OK, so apparently that had been one of his shittier ideas.

Jack grimaced as pain shot up his left temple and he felt something wet and warm start to collect at his hairline – if he hadn’t been planning on dying messily within the next few seconds he’d be anticipating one mother of a headache. Grant swiped at him again and he propelled himself backwards, scrambling until his back hit the wall.

He was out of weapons, out of escape routes, and officially shit out of luck.

At some point during their struggle Grant had managed to dislodge the remnants of the brass VCTF logo from the front desk. He raised the heavy structure haltingly over his head, and Jack watched the slow-motion pivot as Grant prepared to crush his skull.

So he really _was_ going to be crushed by the long arm of the law. Because clearly, his life had lacked enough irony up to now. Jack’s final thought was a silent apology to Samantha that he’d failed her.

His not-so-final subsequent thoughts were several versions of “holy _fucking_ shit” as a shotgun blast blew Grant clear across the room. The brass logo dropped to the ground with a clang, vibrating in place like an oversized penny before coming to a complete rest a few inches from Jack’s head. 

Jack brushed blood and plaster out of his eyes in time to see a petite woman lean over Grant’s body and deliver a second shot that pulverized his head into dust. The long dark hair and oversized leather motorcycle jacket raised a vaguely familiar vibe, one that crystallized into recognition when she turned around.

“All moldy and he still had a nice ass. What a waste.” Frances Malone shook her head, kicking empty shell casings out of her way as she made her way across the room. “Nice to meet you, Jack. Try not to pass out or bleed on me 'till I get you away from the front door, OK?”

There were dozens of questions to be asked and explanations to be demanded, everything from what the hell had just happened here to how she knew who he was in the first place. Jack struggled against a wave of nausea as he tried to summon his most intimidating take-no-prisoners glare.

“Your aim has improved,” he managed, and then promptly violated her first request by passing out on the spot.


	2. Chapter 2

“I’m serious about not moving. I’m out of surgical suture and this is as good as it gets.”

Frances pressed the final butterfly bandage into place against the cut on Jack’s forehead and sat back, surveying her work critically. The wound looked ugly but was fairly superficial, and the bleeding had already stopped. 

“Thanks.” As soon as the word left his mouth Jack grimaced, his head obviously registering its objections to having been batted around like a ping-pong ball.

“Don’t mention it.” Frances grinned to herself, thinking that in fact Jack of all Trades probably _didn’t_ mention gratitude for anything very often. “You should take the morphine, you know. I saw how hard you hit the floor – that headache won’t be going away any time soon.”

Jack waved away the bottle of pills she’d pulled from her makeshift medical bag. “Can’t afford to get drowsy. I need to find someone.”

“Samantha Waters, I know.” Frances had turned away to pack up the medical supplies, but she could feel the surprise and suspicion in the glare he was aiming at her back. “Hate to tell you this, but I don’t think she’s here. I was already up in the command center and the offices.”

“I’ll check the rest of the building.”

“Honestly, I’ve checked everything but the morgue and there isn’t a sign of --”

“Then I’ll check the fucking morgue. I’ll check every inch of Atlanta if I have to.”

Jack hauled himself up to his feet and leaned hard against the sink, staring at his reflection in the dusty mirror. Frances had picked the lobby ladies’ room location partly because he was a little heavy to haul anywhere else in his half-awake state and partly because it was accessible only by a single door, which was now barricaded by a loveseat to discourage unwanted company. She watched his reflection flick several halting glances in her direction before she finally took pity on him – clearly he wasn’t going to be the one to initiate the conversation.

“You can ask the questions, you know. It took me awhile to process everything too.”

Jack hesitated another moment before turning back to face her. “Exactly what the _fuck_ were those things in the lobby?”

“They _were_ people, corpses of people anyway. John, George – it really was them. I didn’t recognize the others.” 

“They were pretty damned animated for corpses.” Jack leaned against the sink with crossed arms. 

“Yeah, I think that’s kind of the point of the whole zombie thing.”

“The _zombie_ thing?”

“Um, zombies? As in --”

“As in brain-eating pulp-fiction ‘Day of the Dead’ _zombies_?” Jack’s look was withering. “Oh, sure, I’ve heard of _them_. I’ve also heard of unicorns and the Easter Bunny. That still doesn’t explain what the hell’s going on here.”

“I know how it sounds, but you have to – ”

“No, _you_ have to cut the crap, kid, and start explaining. And I want real answers, not some bullshit comic-book fantasy!” 

It occurred to her that at one time she would have been terrified to be in a locked room with someone on the FBI’s most-wanted list glaring daggers at her. Now she was just relieved to be facing someone who still had all his organs on the inside. Frances supposed the skepticism was warranted – this was some pretty fantastical shit, to be sure – but his attitude and the “kid” comment pissed her off.

“Sorry to wreck your nice healthy world-view, Jack, but welcome to our big damned fantasy.” She stared him down across the room, mimicking his arms-crossed posture as she leaned against the sink on the opposite wall. “Look, I know you’re a lot of things, and I’m not even going there, but I also know you’re not stupid – you _know_ what you saw out there, logical or not. You can call them zombies, undead, or whatever the hell you want. Fact is they’re strong, they’re mobile, they’re surprisingly smart despite the whole rotting-brains thing, and they like to chew on the living. And there are more of them every damned day.” She paused for a brief breath, then continued in a quieter tone. “I know it’s a lot to wrap your head around, OK? But you’d better get over it fast, because I’ve been here for three days and far as I can tell you and I are two of the only people left in Atlanta who still have a heartbeat. So lose the asshole part of your skill-set if you want to be helpful here, because our odds kind of suck right now.”

As she spoke Jack’s expression morphed slowly from doubtful to somber to just this side of panicky, and Frances was reminded of a day in New York City months earlier when she’d had the same reaction.

As if on cue, her phone vibrated against her belt.

“Because I _really_ need to be dealing with both of you right now,” she muttered in Jack’s general direction as she pressed the “answer” button. She was hit almost immediately by a loud torrent of conversation that she quickly interrupted. “Hey. I’m in Atlanta. Uh, pretty shitty, actually, we just got hit by about ten of them but things are OK now…yeah, ‘we,’ I ran into an old friend. Look, Philip, I’m in the middle of things, I’ll call you later.”

Jack stood in place, not moving, still clearly struggling with how to absorb and process everything. Frances sincerely hoped that his past “success” as a serial killer meant that he wasn’t the type to melt down in a crisis, but she was beginning to have her doubts.

“Jack. If you won’t take the morphine, how about a cigarette?”

That did the trick. Jack’s head popped up and he regarded her with an almost scarily thankful expression as he accepted the crumpled pack of Marlboros.

“God, yes, that I’ll take. I think I dropped mine in the security guard when Grant attacked me. As in _literally_ dropped them into his ribcage. That’s a first, even for me.” He snorted briefly in amusement or possibly horror, then ran a hand through his hair, staring at the drying blood smeared on his fingers. “This is all a delusion, isn’t it? I’m going insane.”

Frances bit back the sarcastic comment regarding the length of his trip to crazytown, opting to slide slowly down the marble wall until she was seated on the floor. “The whole world is pretty fucking insane right now, so I’m probably not the one to ask,” she conceded as she lit her own cigarette. “All I can do is fill you in on what I’ve seen so far, then you be the judge.”

Jack sighed and inhaled deeply, stretching out on the floor beside her and closing his eyes.

“I’m going to finish this cigarette, and then I’m going to go find Samantha,” he stated, each word shrouded in fatigue and pale smoke. “And in the meantime you can tell me, Frannie Malone, how a nice girl like you ended up in a Zombie Apocalypse like this.”


	3. Chapter 3

“The current theory is that it’s some kind of a virus, but there are other ideas floating around out there. Like, maybe all the toxins dumped into the soil and water for so many years finally combined in exactly the wrong way, and instead of Godzilla we got this. And of course there are the groups that insist God is pissed off at us and this is just a _really_ fucked-up version of Judgment Day.”

“When did it all begin?”

“The timeline’s fuzzy, but it started hitting the news four or five months ago. Nothing major at first, just sound-bites about cases of ‘flesh-eating bacteria’ and mystery medical syndromes, that kind of thing. Then there were more cases, then whole clusters of events, and so on. Even now that whole cities are being wiped out they’re still calling it a bad flu. I guess no one’s going to believe the alternative, right?”

One cigarette had turned to two, the guns and heavy jackets were on the floor, and they were perched together on the loveseat/barricade as Jack did his best to integrate the salvo of bizarre information. 

Apparently going to Otis had been a mixed blessing. He’d intentionally cut himself off from most technology for the better part of last year, figuring it would help him blend in better with the locals and also knowing that the ability to electronically drop in on Samantha was too great a temptation, especially while everyone believed that “Jack” was occupying a Georgia prison cell under the name Donald Lucas. In some ways that ploy had worked spectacularly.

On the other hand, while he was sending coded directions to Lucas and improving his score in the Otis Otters’ Tuesday night bowling league he seemed to have overlooked the birth of an entire zombie nation.

“How the hell did I miss this?” He ran his hands through his hair in frustration, wincing when he brushed his bandaged forehead a little too roughly. 

“Well, where exactly is ‘Otis’ anyway?” Frances motioned to the lettering embroidered on his shirt, then rolled her eyes at his hesitation. “Dude, _seriously _. We were just attacked by a dozen undead government workers – do you _really___ think my knowing your zip code is going to put a bigger kink in your plans than that?” 

Jack sighed; she probably had a point. “It’s in northern California, near the border with Oregon.”

Frances nodded. “Mountainous terrain, right? The major infestation started on both coasts and moved into the plains, but they don’t tolerate the mountains for some reason, so it’s still relatively untouched territory. I didn’t see or hear a thing until I came down out of the Catskills.”

The words stirred a vague memory of a judge’s pardon and Bailey Malone proudly decamping for upstate New York with his college-bound daughter. “What about your family?”

She shrugged dismissively. “I assume Mother Dearest was too hung up on her boy-toy of the moment to give a rat’s ass about urban legends. Last I heard she was in Europe getting back in touch with her inner Zen child or some shit – which should be interesting, because the infestation’s supposedly even worse over there. She did do one smart thing and packed my sister off on a ski trip to Colorado before she left, so at least Arianna’s safe and bored in the Rockies last I checked. Go figure, right? Even shitty parenting pays off now and then.”

“And Bailey? He didn’t try to at least call you?” 

He caught the tiniest twitch, a quick jaw-clench before she turned indifferent eyes on him again. “And tell me what, exactly?”

Jack huffed in irritation. “How the fuck should I know, maybe something along the lines of ‘study hard, honey, brush your teeth, practice safe sex and oh, by the way, you should know that my minions are all rising from the dead?’”

“Shockingly enough, regular father-daughter phone calls tended to fall outside his M.O.” Frances took a sudden interest in examining her fingernails. “It wouldn’t have mattered – you don’t plan for something like this. All people can do is react and hopefully survive.”

Something about that response bothered him, but damned if he was focused enough to figure it out at the moment. “So how have you managed to do both so far?” 

“The same way all college kids discover they’re good at doing the alternative-lifestyle thing – it started with spring break.” Frances sighed and sank back against the loveseat, dragging hard on her cigarette. “I was going to drive to New York City to spend a week with friends and then head down to Atlanta. I couldn’t figure out why they were setting up police roadblocks at all the off-ramps and the tunnels, because it was just people getting freaked out about a bad flu, you know?” She snorted mirthlessly, shaking her head. “I remember getting through the checkpoint really easily because the guard just didn’t seem right, like he didn’t care what was happening. Later on when I actually knew what to look for I realized that he _wasn’t_ right, and what I’d seen that day was a person in the early stages of the disease. It basically rots you from the inside out, makes you not care that you’re rotting.”

Jack felt an involuntary shiver skitter up his spine. “That doesn’t sound pretty.”

“It’s not. I’ve never seen anything like it, before or since. The whole city was like a war zone, except the buildings and the streets and the animals were all untouched and only the people were affected. I mean, there were pigeons fluttering around and rats in the alleys and they were completely unfazed, but the people – they were lying dead on the street in pieces, or they were shuffling around looking like they should be dead, just like John and George.” 

“And you were the only unaffected person in the whole place?”

“I saw a couple of other normal people down at the edge of Canal Street when I first drove in.” Frances leaned into the loveseat, grimacing as she stared at the ceiling. “They were touristy types, you know, backpacks and cameras, ‘I Heart NY’ shirts, that kind of thing? They were so shell-shocked by everything that they just froze up. And the creatures knew. You know that movie cliché where the zombies just kind of shuffle around aimlessly until they smell blood or something? Well, that’s crap – these things are total predators. They pay attention and they _plan_. Those people were targeted right away, hunted down on the street and separated from one another within five minutes – and then they were instant zombie chow. They never had a chance in hell of even – _fuck!_ ”

Jack jumped at the sudden epithet, then grabbed her wrist and brushed away the hot ashy remnants of her forgotten cigarette.

“The key to successful smoking is to dispose of the evidence _before_ the final puff, Malone.”

“No shit, Sherlock.” Frances’ attempt at a sarcastic grin fell a little short. “What can I say, I get a little distracted when my stroll down Memory Lane takes me past a city full of corpses.”

“Understandable. How the hell did you manage to get out of there, anyway?”

“Philip J. Nichols, big daddy of the East Coast zombie resistance movement.” Frances rolled her eyes, but this time she managed to smile. “It was pure luck, basically – his team was on a recon mission for supplies and weapons, and I happened to be in the back of the same store fighting off three decomposing Boy Scouts who’d tracked me in there. I wasn’t doing a very good job of it. He saved my life.”

Jack frowned at the spark of a memory. “Philip Nichols…why do I know that name?”

“Probably because the two of you share a file-drawer in my dad’s office.” 

That little bombshell was enough to make him choke in mid-inhale. “The VCTF was after him too?”

“The VCTF considered him hot stuff back in the day. Although technically I think they devoted an entire cataloguing system just to you, so don’t get all insecure about sharing or anything.”

Jack glared as the girl didn’t even attempt to hide her smirk. “ _And…?_ ”

“ _And_ , a few years ago Philip was the head of this anti-government survivalist group. I think officially they were considered a cult, but by all accounts he wasn’t so much about preaching flower-power and loving the one you’re with. He was more into gun-running and bomb-building and the usual heavy shit that didn’t endear him to the Feds. The VCTF was part of the team charged with bringing him in.”

Jack nodded as the details came back to him. “He blew up the entire compound right before they got him.”

“Yep. Took himself and his entire crew out rather than face justice. The reports said the incendiaries burned too hot for the good guys to recover a single body – but hey, it’s not like a bunch of munitions experts and black-ops types would’ve had a contingency plan, right?” Frances shook her head, playing with the cigarette lighter in her hand. “Pretty damned naïve assumption for Quantico’s best and brightest – no wonder they never even came close to getting you.” 

His right leg ironically chose that moment to start throbbing in protest, and Jack grunted as he shifted position to massage the scar from the long-ago bullet wound. “They came closer than you might imagine, kiddo. So Nichols survived and changed careers from cult mastermind to zombie slayer. I suppose stranger things have happened.”

“Please, stranger things just happened thirty minutes ago in the lobby,” Frances pointed out, and Jack had to admit he couldn’t argue with that sentiment. “He’s not the only one leading the resistance cells, but he sort of started the whole thing and he’s still got more followers than anyone else on this side of the country.”

“So you can take the cultist out of the cult…”

“…but when you hit the critical mass of brain-eating undead dudes on your doorstep you’re kind of happy to get him back,” Frances finished. “Anyway, Philip patched me up and got me the hell out of the city and back to the compound. First he had to convince me I wasn’t crazy or hallucinating the whole New York situation. Then he convinced me I’d be much more useful to my family and all the other survivors out there if I learned everything he could teach me about zombies, including how to take the fuckers out. It’s kind of a work in progress.”

“I think you’ve got that taking-out part down pretty well,” Jack conceded with a bit of grudging admiration.

“And _I_ think I should be disturbed that coming from you that means a lot.” Frances’ lips twisted in a brief smirk before she returned her attention to the lighter in her hand. “I remember my dad being so pissed off that they’d lost their chance at bringing Philip in. I wonder if he would’ve been happy to know that I’m here thanks to a VCTF mishap or if he would’ve still just been pissed off and disappointed at the company I’m keeping?”

The words finally sank in at the same time that Jack took a good look at the battered jacket at her feet. The leather was soft and cracked from years of use, and he recognized the Marine Corps insignia stitched into the patch on one arm.

“Bailey’s dead too, isn’t he? I’m sorry,” he added awkwardly at the girl’s curt nod.

“C’mon, Jack, you wanted him dead for years. Don’t get all polite and insincere on me now.” Frances shrugged tightly and stood up, deliberately avoiding his eyes as she smoothed out the front of her shirt. “If it’s any consolation, he wanted you dead just as much. He’s the reason I figured out who you were, by the way – there were files scattered all over his house about this oddball Sherriff Boast who was just a little too stupid to be real. I saw you on the security cameras when I was up in the command center, and as soon as you took out George on the first shot I put two and two together. I figured you’d come back for Sam Waters.”

“I’m not surprised Bailey was the one to catch on. Your father was a pretty sharp guy.” A spike of adrenaline had coursed through him at mention of Samantha, and Jack hauled himself to his feet. “Well, this has been enlightening, but I have to go check out the morgue.”

Frances bent to retrieve her jacket. “Roger that, give me a sec to reload and I’ll come with.”

“Not necessary. I don’t need you for backup.”

“Like you didn’t need me before?” Frances had clearly perfected the exact smart-ass raised-eyebrow smirk that guaranteed he’d go from zero to pissed-off in two seconds. “Don’t flatter yourself, Sherriff. I’m not going along for the pleasure of your company. I was headed there anyway before you crashed the party in the lobby. I need to replenish my medical supplies before I haul ass out of Atlanta. Here you go.” She tossed the Glock at him. “I put a new clip in it for you. Lucky for me the feds are all into semiautomatic protection – I won’t have to restock on ammo for weeks.”

Jack shook his head as she tucked a Beretta M9 into her webbed gun belt, just to the side of a Marine-issue K-BAR tactical knife, and pondered that he’d quite possibly settled for apprenticing Sharon Lesher a bit prematurely.

“Have you looked for her anywhere else?” Frances was asking, and Jack had to break himself out of his reverie to realize she was asking him a question about Samantha.

“I checked every camera at the firehouse – it was empty, locked up tight. She’s here.” Something about the look she was giving him made him bristle. “Look, kid, I don’t have to justify a damned thing to you. I know what I know. Just go do your thing and stay out of my way.”

He pushed the loveseat away from the door and was about to turn the handle when she stopped him with a hand on his arm. 

“Jack.” Her tone was surprisingly snark-free and dead serious. “You need to keep one other thing in mind before you go out there. Whatever’s causing this – it’s not curable. Once the process starts, the person’s effectively a zombie – no matter what they look like or sound like, no matter what they say to you, they’re not the person you knew. When – if – that happens, you have to remember that _you're_ the one who’s living. And then you do what you have to do.”

“Then I’ll have to save Samantha quickly, because there’s no damned way I’d ever –” Jack trailed off at the look on her face, pale and haunted and flinty-eyed over the collar of Bailey’s jacket, and suddenly found himself struggling to breathe past the bile in his throat. “Oh, hell, Frances – you mean – did you have to --?”

Frances hefted the shotgun and chambered a round, sliding the action bolt home with a clack that reverberated off the tile walls and competed with the sound of his heartbeat hammering in his ears.

“It’s like you said, Jack – my aim has improved. Let’s go.”


End file.
